


One Man's Luck

by eighteen_hours



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Courtship, Epistolary, F/M, May/December, Older Man/Younger Woman, Romance, Seduction, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:26:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1271615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eighteen_hours/pseuds/eighteen_hours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teagan's life revolves around helping Alistair rule and putting out the fires caused by the King's continuing obsession with his Warden mistress. He assumed this arrangement would persist forever, but his luck changes when he accompanies the King to Kirkwall to meet the Champion, and he discovers his capacity for love - or perhaps infatuation - never truly left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Kindling

**Author's Note:**

> Later chapters will be explicit, so I chose to use that rating from the beginning. This world involves Alistair on the throne with Anora in a loveless marriage while he continues to see the Aeducan Warden, and Carver serving as a Warden under her.

Teagan hadn’t known it was possible to sweat in so many ways. For one, he and the King had just endured a tongue-lashing fit for boys caught giggling in the Chantry pews during services. For another, someone had chosen Sweltering Candelabra Emporium for the décor in the Viscount’s Keep. Unsurprisingly, his formal velvet jacket and leather jerkin had become soaked in perspiration, and were someone to wring him out he had no doubt the moisture in his clothes could fill a small pond.

Perhaps worst of all, and the most heat-inducing, was the utter failure of the Champion of Kirkwall to show herself.

This was an official visit, a royal visit, and one primarily focused on diplomatic soothing of Kirkwall’s upstart Knight-Commander, a Knight-Commander that had just verbally flogged them for the whole of Kirkwall’s nobility to see. If he came away from this trip with an irreversible bias, one could hardly blame him.

“Tell me you gave her the right date,” Alistair mumbled, shifting in his very insulating, very heavy armor. The poor boy had it worse even than Teagan did. “Tell me we are not standing here roasting, waiting for nobody.”

“She did come from humble beginnings, are we certain she can read?” Teagan asked with a dark chuckle.

“She’s the Champion of Kirkwall, don’t be petty.”

“Pettiness might well be called for if this is a deliberate snub,” he replied. Alistair did so like to give people the benefit of the doubt. Teagan was not in such a charitable mood. He cast an eye around the Keep, watching as petitioners – common and noble alike – stared outright and then tried not to get caught staring. What would cause the Champion to insult them this way? Did she really think it appropriate to ignore a polite summons from the King of Ferelden? Perhaps the delightful stories of her being a poor Lothering girl who brought herself up from nothing to everything were greatly exaggerated. Or maybe all that social mountaineering had left her dizzy and forgetful.

“Sod it,” Alistair said, throwing up his hands. “Somewhere in Kirkwall there’s a cold bottle of wine with my name on it and so help me if anyone gets in my royal way - ”

He turned from the balcony and started down the shallow stairs leading toward the doors and the larger, more open gallery of the Keep. But a young elf girl did, in fact, get in his way, throwing herself on the carpet at his feet, prostrate and out of breath.

“Maker’s breath, child, what is it?” Teagan asked. The guards at their flank rushed forward, wary of assassins, even the tiny, breathless kind.

“M-Mistress Hawke… She… She is ever so sorry! She begs your r-royal pardon, King Alistair,” the girl said, thrusting out an envelope. The thing was closed with a fist-sized seal, a bird-like insignia stamped into the crimson wax. “She b-begged me deliver this into your hands personally!”

“And who might you be?” Teagan intercepted the letter before handing it off to the King.

“Orana, Messere, the Champion’s maid servant. I keep house for her in Hightown!”  
The elf girl was brittle as a sparrow at winter’s end, clinging to the carpet and trembling. Teagan nodded to the guards, who came forward to help, guiding her slowly and carefully to her slippered feet.

Alistair, meanwhile, had cracked the seal on the envelope, perusing the note with one raised brow and a pronounced jut to his chin. “Seems the Champion was called away to a crisis in something called Lowtown. Some thugs were roughing up a volunteer clinic there. She sends her regrets, etcetera etcetera, and she begs our patience, blah, blah, blah. Oh! And she’s invited us to a feast at her home. Tonight, if we can spare the time, or any evening this week. Well… I suppose that’s thoughtful, clearing her schedule to accommodate us.”

“You’re the King of Ferelden, Alistair,” Teagan muttered, taking the letter to read it himself. “It’s not thoughtful, it’s right and proper.”

“Yes, yes, but… You know what? Fine. Be sour about it.” Alistair plucked the letter out of his hands petulantly and stuffed it into his belt. “Say, girl, Orana was it? Would you be kind enough to return to your mistress with our answer?”

The girl hunched, nodding so hard the bun on the back of her head bounced and almost came free. “Whatever you desire, Majesty, sir. Messere. Your Majesty, I’d be honored t-to deliver your message.”

Alistair shot Teagan a sly look, one far more boyish than kingly. “Tell Serah Hawke we will happily accept her invitation. My guard will arrive an hour early to make certain all safety measures are in place, and then the Champion can expect my party to arrive by eight.”  
The elf girl bowed at least six times and then scuttled away. Teagan groaned, wishing only to spend the evening in a nice bath with a book and some of the famous ales of the city. He followed Alistair out of the Keep, hoping the Hawke mansion would prove to hold far fewer candelabras and a good deal more cold wine.

 

*

Within moments of stepping inside the Hawke estate, Teagan realized he needn’t have worried about the wine. They had arrived, as promised, at eight, though clearly the festivities had started well before then. Bright, jangling music greeted them before they even breached the door, and he could hear someone singing loudly – and badly – to the tune.

“I can already tell we’re woefully overdressed,” Alistair moaned, rapping on the door. Usually a steward or manservant would take care of these little tasks for the King, but Alistair insisted on traveling with a small, intimate band of trusted cohorts. He also eschewed the normal royal fussiness, unless they were back home in court and in front of Anora. The Queen insisted they follow protocol and project, at all times, the image of the perfect Fereldan couple.

A perfect Fereldan couple with no children and no affection, but Anora was no simpleton; they were well-loved by their people, and nobody seemed to guess that the King and Queen could hardly stand to be in the same room, let alone the same bed.

“You’re the King,” Teagan reminded him. “It would be disappointing if you weren’t the most pompous ass in the room.”

Alistair grinned at that. “Forgive me if I keep up the ruse for only a cup or two. Then this blighted jacket is coming off and I’m going to enjoy myself.”

“Just not too much, if you please, sire. The last time I had to carry you out of a party I nearly broke my back.”

“You’re just getting old,” Alistair said, clapping him on the back. And it hurt. He had no smiles for the King’s joke; Teagan really was beginning to feel time ticking on. Every morning it seemed harder and harder to rise early and go to the armsman for his usual exercises with blade and shield. These late night fetes with Alistair certainly didn’t help the situation, either.

The music continued inside, unabated. Nobody came to the door.

Alistair tried again. And again. Then finally he put the full might of his sword arm into it, banging with an open-palm on the door. The tambourine stopped first, then the spirited lute. He could hear the commotion inside as the guests at the door were finally noticed.

“A moment!”

“Is this sort of hilarious?” Alistair mused, fixing his hair. “I mean… I am the King, right? This isn’t some fever dream? Did I catch a weird Kirkwallian disease on the boat over?”

“From what I understand, the Champion is young and popular,” Teagan replied smoothly. “If I strain, I can almost remember what that felt like.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, old man. The ladies at court haven’t yet given up on you,” Alistair said. “One of these days you’ll have to tell one yes, and then you too can experience the bliss of wedded life.”

Those last few words dripped venom, but Alistair wiped the dour look off his face when the lock on the door clanked and then light flooded out to meet them.

One of Hawke’s other servants had no doubt come to fetch them. She was short and dressed in a bright red velvet gown with a scandalous neckline. Her straw-blonde hair was mussed and blown back from her ruddy face. Out of breath, she leaned, barefoot, out toward them and grinned.

Sweet, pretty dimples curved into her cheeks.

“There you are!” she cried, as if she had known Alistair all her life. “Are you late? No! No, you aren’t, we just lost all track of time! Varric’s wine will do that to you. Come in, please! Do come in. And leave your cloaks on the bench, I’ll have Orana come by to fetch them in a moment.”

She turned and swept back inside. Alistair threw him a look over one shoulder. “ _I’ll_ have Orana come by?” he echoed in a whisper.

“Surely not…” Teagan began, easing his way into the estate.

“Champion!” A deep, deep voice called from inside the house. “Get back here! You owe me a dance, you silly weasel!”

“Oh Maker help us,” the King breathed, but then he laughed, tickled, it seemed, by their unusual welcome. He shut the door behind them and both men lingered in the antechamber, removing their half cloaks before placing them unceremoniously on the bench, as directed. It was a warm home, though not unpleasantly so, decorated in a haphazard enthusiasm that amused and delighted Teagan. Curious banners and paintings had been put on the wall seemingly at random, unmatched vases and side tables were pushed to the sides, making him wonder if she displayed every gift or trinket without thought and without prejudice.

Alistair led them toward the music and conversation, for the Champion had already disappeared. Bright, orange light bled into the hall from the next room, where he could see the festivities in full swing. They paused at the open door, observers, and Teagan took note of the many bodies cluttering the two story room. A fire burned away cheerfully to the right, the mantle above heaped with tokens and letters, bits of maps and scrolls and even a few ceremonial daggers.

The music resumed as if nothing at all had happened. As if a King wasn’t standing awkwardly in the doorway, waiting for a proper introduction.

“I know you often tire of formality,” Teagan said in an undertone. “But this is…”

“Bloody fantastic,” Alistair finished, giving a booming laugh and then clapping his hands together. “Maker but it will be nice to not be fussed over constantly. Hey now, is that Golden Scythe Mead? An entire cask of it… That’s impossible to find.”

Before Teagan could intervene, Alistair bounded across the room, targeting a large barrel with a peculiar label and a dwarf manning the spigot. Teagan couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a beardless dwarf, but this one seemed to have taken fashion cues from every corner of Thedas. A huge, golden chain hung around the man’s neck, and his hair was slicked back elegantly, finished in a neat topknot. The jacket he wore reminded Teagan of the Crow “emissaries” that sometimes appeared at the castle to apprise the King of the latest Antivan news.

But there were many others to observe – a willowy elf with braided hair and reddish brown tattoos covering her pretty face. She was barefoot, like the lady of the house, and currently blushing over a cup of wine as she laughed helplessly. Laughing, surely, because of the charms of the woman opposite her, a tall, statuesque beauty with dusky skin and a gold necklace to rival the dwarf’s.

A stronger, more solid elf lurked near the stairs, his shock of white hair puffed back every few seconds as he tried and failed to look utterly put-upon by the merriment. The musicians looked as though they had come straight from the docks, then scrubbed and shoved into appropriate attire. He recognized the song now, a bawdy tune played loudly enough to shake the rafters.

The Champion herself was now absent, though nobody seemed to care. Alistair’s guards stood sentinel in the corners, probably eyeing the food and drink with knotted bellies. Which reminded him… The spread of cheeses, fresh breads and meats made his stomach growl, and if he didn’t address the situation soon, no amount of raucous music would drown out the sorrows of his hungry gut.

He dodged toward the table, side-stepping a couple who were not so much dancing as rubbing frantically against each other with a vague sense of rhythmic intention. A chuckle escaped him as he picked out a rare cut of beef and popped it into piece of toast, then slathered the whole thing in fragrant horseradish and peppercorn sauce. It was difficult not to be amused by it all. Alistair was right; it was like a fever dream, something completely outside the realm of their usual buttoned up royal affairs. And Maker, he had missed it. Without warning, his heart clenched, his eyes misting a little at the remembrance of the last time he had felt this, well, _light_.

The Archdemon defeated, the Blight ended, the festivities that night in the castle had been anything if formal. Most of them had ended up half-naked, drunk beyond reason, coiled around each other singing along to a rousing Fereldan military chant. So much relief and possibility had made easy friends of them all, and for a night, nobody was the Hero, nobody was King, nobody was Bann.

And then the morning had come, lifting the curtain on the theatre of life and the roles they would all have to grow up and play.

The beef was excellent, running with juice, and he helped himself to another slice. He found an accompanying wine, listening to Alistair’s laughter soar above the music as the dwarf regaled him with one story or another.

Solitary, Teagan turned to face the hearth, sipping a rich red and taking in the subtler hints to the Champion that he found littered over the walls and in the corners. The bookcases tried valiantly to contain all of the scrolls and tomes piled on the shelves, but some had dislodged, falling in a messy fountain to the floor. Some books were stacked perilously close to the fire. An abandoned alchemy project still sat on one table to the right of the fireplace. And above the mantle, hanging in plain view, were several portraits of family members, he presumed, and mage staves. Staves. He lowered his cup slowly, frowning.

Was the Champion a mage? The idea, curiously, had never occurred. Nobody mentioned that in the reports that trickled in from Kirkwall. Mostly, the reports focused on the fact that a Qunari invasion had been narrowly averted, yet the battle had taken a serious toll. The Champion was mentioned, obviously, but no details of her famed duel with the Arishok were given. For the first time, he wondered if maybe she had used some of her considerable fortune to silence those that had witnessed the event.

Gold was gold, even if it came from a social-climbing apostate.

“Excuse me, Messere?”

Teagan turned, abruptly jarred out of his musings. He found a tall, sturdy youth regarding him. The man’s eyes were a startling turquoise and he wore the sober red, black and gold robes of a chantry brother. An odd belt was clasped over his robes, and either the wine was very strong or the buckle had been shaped to look like Andraste’s face…

“Yes?” Teagan let the Very Important Man mask slip back into place. “Can I help you?”

“I couldn’t help but notice you arrived with the King,” the man said. He spoke with a thick accent that Teagan couldn’t place. “Allow me to say that it is a great honor indeed to have you both grace us with your presence.”

The way he spoke, Teagan had to wonder if this was the man of the house. Though how a man with vows could be wed and landed Teagan didn’t know. He pushed the thought out of his mind and mustered a smile. “The honor is ours, I assure you…?”

“Sebastian,” the man supplied with a bright flash of teeth. “Sebastian Vael.”

“Bann Teagan.” He gave the customary short bow from the waist, one that was more reflex than courtesy at this point. “I’m advisor and company to his majesty.”

“A glorious position indeed, Messere, welcome, and how, erm, pleasant that the King seems to have made fast friends with our resident story-teller.” Sebastian nodded to the corner, where the dwarf was gathering a rapt audience.

“I was hoping to have a word with our host,” Teagan said, sweeping his gaze around the room. “She seems to have vanished.”

Sebastian laughed, wholeheartedly, calming with a little snort of amusement. “Aye, that’s our Champion, all right. Here one minute, gone the next, onto the bigger adventure.”

But the man was swiftly proven wrong. A bundle of red dress and yellow hair appeared amidst them, her cheeks even pinker and more appealing than when Teagan had first spied her. She possessed the fresh-faced beauty of every Fereldan girl that had ever broken his heart.

“Sebastian, Maker, are you being boring? Stop being so ruddy boring,” she chided, her little rosebud mouth quirking to the side. Then, with an even cheekier grin, she flopped one of the man’s arms around her shoulder, sliding up close to him. The effect was immediate. He blushed to the roots of his ginger hair and took an enormous step back.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that, Hawke,” he said, a slight stammer to his words. He buried his face in his goblet, hiding a fraction of the blush. “And I was not being boring. It seems nobody at all has bothered with introductions for your guests.”

“They’re grown men, Sebastian, they survived a Blight, and they rule a country. I’m reasonably confident they can take care of themselves.” She beamed up at Teagan.

He had never, not in the few times he had let his mind wander to the idea of the Champion, thought she would be so... so _short_. The thought of this little slip of a woman defeating a Qunari could not resolve itself in his head. The image simply didn’t make sense. Then he remembered the mage staves on the wall and the picture sharpened, a little clearer.

“Thank you for having us,” Teagan said, again giving that bow. When he righted, he found himself pinned in place by two bright, beguiling gray eyes. He didn’t allow himself the liberty of glancing any lower; even the subtlest attempt to drink her in would be noticed at this range.

“Sorry about that whole _thing_ this afternoon,” she said casually, flapping her hand around to clarify whole thing. She took deep drink from a cup, and her lips came away stained with wine. Teagan felt a warning ache in his core, a scary flame dancing there that reminded him of previous, more disastrous fires of wanting. The Champion didn’t look anything like her, but that didn’t matter. They shared the same brash, easy confidence, the same sparkle of wit and recklessness in the eyes.

“Yes,” Teagan replied, finding his voice. “I’m told there was quite a dust up in the less savory parts of town.”

“That’s a very nice description of what happened,” she said, nodding. Her hair was only long enough to graze her earlobes. It shifted constantly, messy and stylishly unkempt. “A friend of mine runs a clinic in the under city. Two mothers had babies to deliver tonight, so clearing the rabble out of that place had to take priority. Hope there’s no hard feelings.”

“I admit, we did experience a moment of offense, but it’s obvious you chose the more pressing matter,” Teagan said, chuckling. The wine was good and Maker, he wanted more of it. As if reading his mind, the Champion reached for a carafe and refilled his cup, then hers.

“Is that the Royal We?”

“Oh… No! Not at all.” He laughed again, this time nervously. His cheeks burned with wine and embarrassment. “And of course the King’s feelings on the matter are far more important than mine, Champion.”

“Marian, please. Champion is much harder to say after a few cups of that wine, trust me,” she said. Her eyes sparked when she laughed and when she plied him with more of the rich red wine. The Sebastian person lingered on the fringes of their conversation, glancing awkwardly from his cup to the floor and then to the Champion – Marian.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Teagan began, “so many years at court has left me particularly dependent on honorifics. Flub one there and you never hear the end of it.”

“No such threat of that here,” Marian assured him. She leaned forward and nearer to him to set the carafe back on the table, affording him a clear view of her neck and the breasts hoisted by her obliging corset. Gowns such as these were not at all the fashion in Denerim, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the brief glimpse of supple, soft flesh and the smooth architecture of her neck.

“I’ve had to endure far too many painful, uppercrusty parties in recent years, so whenever I can host something a bit more informal I jump at the chance. I took a gamble with this, I suppose, but who doesn’t love music and enough food to fill a bronto?” she said, straightening. He looked away, but perhaps not readily enough. One fawn-colored brow arched, and he felt the sweep of her gaze repaying him the compliment, starting at his eyes and ending just below his belt.

The room squeezed him, too hot and too small. He felt old. Old and dirty. Old and dirty and undeserving. Perhaps Alistair was right. All those years dodging marriage proposals at court had left him tactless and out of practice. Teagan the younger would have had this girl wrapped around his finger from word one.  
He cleared his throat, determined to do better. Or not better, but to simply ride out the night with no further stumbles.

Maker. The phrase “riding out” certainly didn’t help center his thoughts. Against his better judgment, he took a long and fortifying sip of the wine.

“You traveled with the Hero of Ferelden, yes?” Oh thank the Maker, she hadn’t noticed his deviant leering. He silently thanked her for fielding such an easy question.

“Many times, Champ – Marian.” They both laughed at that, and he felt the tension shift but not ease. “She still visits Denerim often, though the growing troubles in Kirkwall kept her from us for some time now.”

“Be honest,” she said, leaning toward him, bringing a rush of feminine scent that twined into him like a spell. The Champion lowered her voice to a cheeky whisper. “Are she and the King… You know…?”

He faltered, pathetically so, stammering out a half-coherent, “Intimate?”

Marian nodded, blonde hair swinging about her face. Now he would find out about her powers of perception. It was a lie he had told so many times, he ought to excel at it by now. But it felt that each time he said it, the greater price he paid. It was so many years ago now, ancient history, but he could still remember the exact tilt of her smile, the little spray of freckles across her nose, her hands, unusually delicate for a dwarf…

“Just idle rumor and gossip, I assure you.” Teagan capped it with a preposterous laugh.

She stared back at him, one hip cocking to the side.

“Is that so?” She nodded to his cup. “Have a few more rounds, then I’ll ask you again.”

“My answer will remain the same,” he said, and then more confidently, “Alistair is devoted to his queen.”

“Mm. He looks _real_ devoted.”

Teagan followed her eye, twisting to find Alistair in his element, an element Teagan found equal parts troublesome and childish. But it was a reflex, Alistair couldn’t stop it. Beautiful women surrounded him and like a switch being flipped somewhere, his hair magically mussed, his brow lifted, he found something just the right height to lean against roguishly. This time, it was being brought out by the dusky woman with the gold necklace. By his estimation, the outrageous flirting was matched on either side.

“It’s his duty to be charming and accommodating,” Teagan said, struggling to produce a convincing argument. The evidence, quite frankly, spoke for itself. “A virile king is better than a milksop, or so I’ve always been led to believe.”

“I’d watch him, if I were you,” she said. “Isabela has a way of bringing out the virility in everyone.”

“Even you?” He asked it before the last sober vestige of his mind had a chance to vet the words. _Idiot. She’s half your age and twice as drunk yet still she manages to leave you looking the worse for it._

Marian’s mouth dropped open in a pleasant O of surprise. Then she laughed, loudly and with her whole body, slapping him playfully on the wrist. “No! Oh, Maker, no, no. Although I can’t say I haven’t been tempted. Isabela isn’t my type. It hardly keeps her from trying.”

Somehow he couldn’t stop himself, or even find the pride to be ashamed about it. “And what, may I ask, is your type?”

All at once he was hit with the terrible clarity of the last time he had tried this. With her. With Sereda. He had tried almost the exact same line, disarmed by her pretty eyes, her straightforward manner, and gotten a response that danced right around the question, leaving him confused and wanting. But then as she left the Chantry, he had seen the way she glanced at Alistair and the way he looked back, and Teagan had known then and there he had to tear out the weed of longing that was already sprouting and spreading roots.

The result, it occurred to him, was a lifetime of barrenness.

He braced for the dance, for the deflection.

“That guy,” she said flatly, pointing her thumb toward the Sebastian fellow, who had moved away to clap lamely along to the music. “Yup. The preachy, insufferable know-it-all Chantry types just get me all wound up. I get one look at that sparkly Andraste belt and I’m a puddle. Just… Goo. Goo all over the floor.”

Teagan blinked back, holding onto his cup for dear life. Could she be serious? He shot a questioning look in Sebastian’s direction.

“Joke. It’s a joke,” she said, snorting. “And to answer your adorably impertinent question, I don’t have one. A type, I mean. Not really. I’ve never had much time for that sort of thing. Mother…” Her eyes grew distant, foggy but not from drink. “Well, there were aspirations, but landing a noble husband wasn’t high on the priority list. Still isn’t.” She shrugged. “I do all right for myself.”

Was it his imagination, or did she glance at his left hand? At the spot where a ring might go…

“You certainly do,” Teagan said, reaching, stupidly, for the wine carafe. He refreshed both their cups. “But I confess – I’m surprised that you have no aspirations of noble courtship. Gossips in Ferelden say you’re a ruthless social climber, and that you won’t stop until you make Viscountess.”

“Do I look like a Viscountess to you?” she asked, trying to both direct him to look at her and not spill wine down her front.

“I believe that’s what we call a _loaded_ question, Champion.”

“Is it? No. Trust me, it isn’t.” She grinned and jabbed him a little with her elbow. At least now she had invited him to look, so the odd glance down at her sweet, curvy little body couldn’t do any harm. But looking pained him, reminding him of how close and how very far she was – so much smooth, delicious skin to drink in, but every inch he admired only made the ache in his belly and his groin worsen. It had been far, far too long since he had taken a lover.

“Your gossips have me all wrong,” Marian continued earnestly. “I want to protect my family, and I want to protect my friends. Sometimes those interests overlap with what’s best for Kirkwall, but I can never make promises there.”

“You might not have a choice,” he cautioned her. He saw before him the same raw, unmolded talent for leadership he had once seen in Alistair. Unlike Alistair, however, he sensed this young woman could blossom yet into a shrewd and formidable political figure in her own right. Under her own guidance. “Responsibility finds us all one way or another, my dear, the readiness is nothing, the preparation is all.”

Her wide gray eyes glittered at that, and she drifted toward him, bringing along that gorgeous scent, the one he was rapidly attempting to catalog and file away for later. She touched his arm again, this time gently, and the touch lingered. Teagan stared down at it, unwilling to trust that his luck had changed.

“Say that again,” she murmured, dragging her eyes to his lips.

Teagan colored under her scrutiny. She was drunk, but had sense enough to stay upright and keep her speech unslurred. “W-Which?”

“You know which.”

His first estimation of her was of a flighty, pretty thing, a young woman drunk on wine and power, but now he wasn’t so sure. There was command there and intent, and he found himself eager to listen and obey. He racked his mind for the words she wanted… Heat flamed up from his middle when he landed on them.

“My dear,” he said, leveling his voice. Her eyes sparkled again, her lips parting as if anticipating a kiss. Teagan shoved sense out the window, repeating the words, this time lower and in an octave he knew might please her better. “My dear.”

Sod babysitting Alistair. Sod his age. Sod the fingers of doubt even now prodded at his subconscious. He wanted her. Maker, he wanted her and all for his own.

Something sparked to life in him, a knowledge that had gone to sleep, made dormant by an age’s old disappointment. He stepped closer to her, shifting and sliding one arm around her little waist. She was small and delicate, but filled with magic, an intoxicating combination he had every intention of studying further. Teagan smiled, feeling her shudder against him, warm and thrumming with life in his grasp. He lowered his mouth to her ear and let the rasp of his beard touch the sensitive velvet of her neck.

“Is that what you wanted?” he rumbled.

“Definitely. Definitely yes,” she whispered, leaning into him.

Maybe his luck had changed after all.

“And what else do you want,” he asked in a low growl, “my dear?”


	2. Chapter 2

Night made the balcony blessedly cool, a light wind breaking the almost unbearable heat of the day. And she needed it colder, needed something to diffuse the blush that made red points burn like coals in her cheeks. She could feel the flush spreading down her neck to her breasts, a pleasurable sensation under more intimate circumstances, but they weren’t there yet.

  No, they weren’t there yet, if they would ever get there.

_Ahead of yourself again, nug-brains. One step at a time._

She watched Bann Teagan walk to the edge of the balcony and lean against the stone balustrade, his feet crossing at the ankles in a pose of casual elegance that suited him. His eyes, pale blue and bright even in the darkness, followed her as she approached, tracking down from her lips to the tops of her breasts. His gaze didn’t linger, swooping right back up to meet her gaze.

“You have the advantage of me, my lady,” he said smoothly. “All alone out here… And you the dangerous and much-feared Champion of Kirkwall. Should I fear for my life?”

Marian laughed, craning her head back to let the thin breeze run along her neck. He watched that, too, and his eyes seemed to darken with sudden excitement. Had she at last slipped out of her dress? Mother always hated that gown, it was too flirty, too vulgar… Her head snapped back down at once. She didn’t want to think about Mother.

Then the thought occurred: This is one she would actually approve of.

Her smile returned.

“I lost you there for a moment,” he observed. She was close to him now, and she could smell the light fragrance of wine on his breath and other scents, too, the leather and spice of expensive boots and quality soap. “Where did you go?”

“I was thinking about your fear of me,” she lied, leaning onto the stone with him. She had to look up to meet his eye, something that always gave her a thrill. It hadn’t been that way with Fenris. It hadn’t been many ways at all, but she had always found it odd that he was only a smidge taller. He never encompassed her when they embraced.

Maybe that should have made his vanishing the more predictable. It didn’t.

_No more bad thoughts tonight. He likes you._

“And I came to the conclusion that you’re right to fear me,” she added with a chuckle.

Teagan’s brows lifted, his head tilting ever so slightly to the right. “Should I call for some of the King’s bodyguards? It’s their duty to protect me, too, you know…”

“And are they practiced against mages?” she asked, conjuring a whiff of blue fame. It reflected in his eyes, a similar color, his lips parting at the crackle of energy and sound. She let it burn for a moment, then swirled her fingers, extinguishing it with a flourish.

“Somehow I doubt they would give you much trouble,” he said.

“Call for one and we can find out.” Marian knew he wouldn’t, but she enjoyed the way he looked at her now – with more interest and more intensity. He leaned closer, just a little, but enough to betray his growing curiosity.

“I’d much prefer to be alone,” Teagan said, lowering his tone to the same delicious rumble he had used against her downstairs.

“Alone? With a mage? Doesn’t that make you nervous…”

“I am many things right now,” he replied, leaning even closer, “nervous is not one of them.”

Marian tilted her head back again, letting the starlight and wind play along her neck. That damn flush refused to go away, worsening, particularly with his proximity. He inched closer, his arm behind her now, almost touching her lower back.

“What are you?” she asked, reaching up to flip a toggle on his jerkin that had twisted. “Tell me everything you are right now.”

It was a drunken, stupid thing to say. Fenris would chide her for it. _What do you mean? What foolishness is this? I am here and you are there, and that should be sufficient description of the situation._

His tone always made her feel like a little girl. He didn’t mean it to, she knew that, and didn’t blame him… Still, it was nice to say something flirty and inane and have it be met with a pleasant smile.

Very pleasant. She loved his mouth… Perhaps too sensuous for a man, but the rest of his hard, straight features and the neat beard made it all fit nicely.

“Let me see…” His body touched the outside of hers, warm and inviting. Again he brought his lips to her ear and she shivered, closing her eyes. “I am rather drunk. Amiably engaged in conversation. I am… intrigued. Arrested. Alarmingly besotted. That could be the wine, of course, but I doubt it.”

Marian laughed, playing with that fob on his coat again, letting her hand stay afterward and tent lightly on his chest. Even through the tooled leather she could feel the hard flat of his muscles, surprisingly developed for a man of his age.

“What else?” she prompted.

“Aching to kiss your neck, if you’ll permit it.”

That voice. He must have known exactly what it would do to her. Marian pulled her head back to look at him. He was leaning over, trapping her against the balcony railing now, all pleasurable reminders of his height and breadth. Breathing hard, she studied him for a moment.

“I’ve given offense,” he said, retreating. “It was too bold of me…”

“Not even a little bit,” she countered, tugging on his jacket. “Be bolder, if you please.”

“Bolder?” Happily he shifted closer, nudging the outer edge of her ear with his nose. “Taking such liberties in the presence of a lady may require more wine.”

She swatted him, then pulled herself away to hunt in her room for just such a thing. Knowing Anders or Aveline would rob her blind of the good stuff if she kept it in plain view, Marian stored her best liquors in a small cabinet beside her bed. She retrieved a bottle of Gwaren whiskey – one she had been keeping for a special occasion – and brought it back out to the balcony. Below, she heard the thumping of the drums and the dancers, Isabela’s impetuous laughter rising above it all.

Marian held out the bottle to him, glad of the small noise of appreciation he gave at the sight of the label.

“We took an entire cellar of this off of Mac Tir’s estate,” Teagan said, uncorking the bottle with a faraway smile. “Alistair called it forced reparations. The Queen was not pleased, as you might imagine.”

“I know you lied before,” she said, taking the whiskey and drinking from the neck. She handed it across, watching Teagan hesitate before doing the same. “About their grand royal romance. It’s a sham, isn’t it?”

“So this was your plan all along,” he replied. And then, after a long swig, “To get me blind-drunk and pump me for court gossip.”

“Not at all,” she said honestly. The whiskey burned and burned strongly, redoubling the red glow to her skin. “Only Isabela was eyeing the royal arse like a prime cut of meat and she tends to get what she wants… If he’s madly in love with the Queen I don’t want to start an international incident. Not that Isabela would mind. She’d boast about it.”

Teagan chuckled gamely and they passed the bottle back and forth a few more times. “Alistair is not tremendously fond of Anora. I tried… Really I tried to push them together in more… intimate fashions. Sadly, they are oil and water and always will be.”

“And really,” Marian began, taking the bottle and setting it safely on the ground near the balcony door. “I’m not sure any woman can compete with the Hero.”

“Some.” The way he said it, low, and just after she had turned back to see him, made her heart thunder and race. “She certainly is a remarkable woman - brave, loyal, of good cheer, stubborn and of unusual, exotic beauty.”

His voice trailed, a hitch stopping it altogether. Marian squinted. There was something there, something odd about the way he spoke about the Hero. “Did you and she…”

Teagan laughed, loudly and nervously, and batted away the suggestion. “Maker, no. It’s difficult to pull focus with someone like Alistair around.”

“I find that hard to believe.” She slipped back into his warmth, angling up against his side. “You’re handsome and you must know it.”

“Often I simply feel old. Ancient, really.” He lifted his hand and touched her chin with the backs of his fingers. “You are not at all helping the situation.”

“Well, if you’re so _convinced_ of your decrepitude, you should probably take all possible advantage of having the attention of a young lady,” she suggested. “Besides,” Marian continued, dodging into his touch. “I like the lines at your eyes. They show you smile, big and often. And the gray in your hair… It’s elegant. You’re imperfect, mm? Just like me.”

His touch ran lightly over her jaw and down her neck, shying just around her collar bone. “Nonsense. You are maddeningly perfect.”

The whiskey reared its head, driving her to tug at one side of her gown. She pulled until the strap gave, revealing most of her right breast and part of the long, ugly scar that ran all along that side of her body. “The Arishok did that. Anders had to shove part of my guts back inside me. It was… a near thing.”

When Teagan spoke next, his eyes directed to her scar, his voice was throaty, rasped. “Before… Exactly how bold do you wish me to be?”

“Very.”

He nodded, once, a piece of dark gingery hair swinging free from behind his ear. He pushed it back impatiently, then carefully peeled her gown over the rest of the way. The corseting loosened and released, the full weight of her breast sliding into his palm. Her lashes fluttered, her stomach heavy suddenly with desire and nerves. His thumb slid gently across her tightening nipple, teasing the peak with the lightest whisper of pressure.

Teagan eased her closer and into his embrace, his breath falling hot and rushed against her left ear. “All I see, my dear, is utter perfection.”

His hand squeezed then bounced her soft flesh in his palm. She leaned into him, caught off-guard by how that simple touch could be so maddening… Her focus became the warmth of his fingers, the strength in them, the teasing flick of his thumb as it swept across her nipple again…

She twisted and pushed up onto tiptoes, blindly finding his lips and kissing him. “The bed,” she murmured, desperate. “We need… I have to… The bed.”

“My, that _is_ bold,” he said, chuckling into her lips and unfastening the toggles on his coat.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” She fell back onto the bed, grasping the door to her room with a gust of magic and slamming it shut. She didn’t care who heard or intuited or gossiped, Teagan was already there, kissing her, crushing her into the mattress, and all the bad thoughts fled.


End file.
